behind every plan to bring her home. Like the burning bush
landmark on Tiger Mountain Road, she is a bright detail
withdrawn by the season and dismissed.
I tell her we should go back to where fireflies bumble
through the humid dusk and pierce the black barrel of evening,
which she will misconstrue as a healing allegory and reject
out of hand. (I must be careful with these provincial charms.)
Or she’ll agree for now, but will surely follow when chance
jerks its tired Palomino sideways and heads back west.
